I should've known it was going to be a weird day when I left home soooo late and still got to work on time.
With my shirt on backwards.
Sigh.
At least it's almost lunchtime - I wonder what fast food I will consume today? And I wonder how long, post-consumption, will that food want to reappear?
EW.
:)
A co-worker looked at me the other day, her pale face contorting with disgust when I told her that my husband and I had just purchased a Denali. "You'll spend so much on gas with that thing!"
The funniest thing about this situation was not that the woman before me was lecturing me on the importancies of petrol-economic vehicles (and, yet, she owns an SUV) but the fact that there was very little things about her that were real - her hair, her "tan" and her "designer" clothes are the first blaringly obvious things that come to mind.
Call me horrible -but the day that I choose a car based on gas mileage is the day that I stop spending hundreds of dollars on Coach purses, Kate Spade sunglasses, Louis Vuitton clutches and Dooney satchels!
That was funny - I said "the day I stop spending" - oh - wipe the tears from my eyes - oh. I totally should've said: "the day my hubby stops spending hundreds of dollars" on me. And we all know - that aint gonna happend anytime soon!
:)
It started simply enough.
I was hungry.
I wanted lunch.
It was lunchtime.
So far, so good, huh?! Well- that's where the simplicity ended and chaos took the wheel, literally. You see, in my town, a college town where restaraunts and fast-food joints are jumbled together in a maze around Fifth Avenue, things can get a tad confusing as to where one should enter and where one should not. For example, the driveway for the "out" for Burger King is identical and within three feet of the "in" for Subway. So, you can imagine my surprise when I think I am turning in to partake in the wonder that is a Toasted Turkey Sub on Wheat and find myself bumper to big bumper with a Dodge Ram that could eat my little Escape along with the Double Whopper it had just purchased. My face froze in mid-sing-along to the Dirty Dancing Soundtrack and I gripped the steering wheel while trying to quickly come up with a way out of becoming a squished chicken McNugget.
So - I turned left, hopped over one curb, a sidewalk, and another, higher curb and maybe even a few pedestrians that soon abandoned their lunch plans in fear of the crazy, wild-eyed girl behind the wheel of the black SUV and careened into the Subway drive-thru - breathless, but virtually unscathed.
The silver lining?: I finally got to break in my Four Wheel Drive.
Oh yeah.
I drove six hours, one way, to Richmond, Virginia on Thursday after work. It was impeccable timing, seeing as how the cheapest gas I could find was over three freakin' dollars a gallon!
Can you say "price gouging"? I knew you could!
Not only that - but my mom went with me.
Six hours.
In a car.
With my mother.
"Lord help me be strong and fight the temptation to leave her at a travel plaza with nothing but her oversized beaded bag and her designer imposter eyewear."
We got there at a little past midnight - Harry came out to the car and our suitcases (mine was the size of Texas - but it was for FOUR DAYS - I needed lots of stuff for that amount of time...) and took them upstairs. Mom slept on the couch, Summer took the guest room and Harry and I slept in sis' room.
About three AM I woke up and turned over towards where my sleeping husband lay on his side. I reached over to lovingly stroke his back, I just missed him so much....
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaagh!" He screamed and pulled away from me like someone suffering from Battered Wife Syndrome. He almost fell off the other side of the bed - teetering like a deranged Weeble, stiff and tense and clutching on to his pillow for dear life while being - completely and soundlessly asleep.
"Well - Harry!" I said and then patted his butt. He snored and relaxed - but I couldn't help but wonder about my Homecoming and what was in store for me in the nights to come.
As usual, my assumptions were correct.
The next night we inadvertantly switched sides of the bed - which must be the only explanation for the events that happened soon after we went to sleep. I had just begun my dream about being Buffy the Vampire Slayer - when - all of a sudden, my pillows were ripped from underneath my head! My noggin' flopped against the mattress and I looked to the right just in time to see my dear husband folding my two pillows up under his chin, coupled with his two, he appeared to be sleeping soundly atop a large fluffy mountain. I stared at him and then did what any loving wife would do - I took ahold of the corner of the one nearest to me - and yanked with all my chubby might.
Needless to say I slept sans pillow that night.
Since I am in a state of Nocturnal Know-it-allness - I will share with you, you poor readers of my blog, the night I fondly call "The Ass of Fire." One frigid night in December, Harry stayed over at my apartment. Now, in those days of pre-marital copulation (yup - we did it - lots - now - moving ON....) we shared a twin bed. Lemmie put this in to a better mental picture for you - Harry - not a small guy - and me - NOT a small or medium girl - shared a TWIN bed. A tiny, not fit for anyone over the age of seven, TWIN bed. And Phoebe insisted on sleeping with us, too.
So, one night, we are sleeping when I hear a thud and then smell something burning. It's 2 AM so I just figure that Tiffany was up making herself something to eat - she worked odd hours and was always up doing something - I learned to ignore it. But the smell intensified. I finally looked up to see that Harry had fallen out of the bed and had landed with his boxer-clad ass against the space heater - STILL ASLEEP.
It was too cold for me to get out of my nice warm bed and assist him in his predicament - so I took to yelling at him in between my fits of laughter.
"HARRY! HARRY! HEY - YOUR ASS IS ON FIRE! HONEY -YOUR ASS - IS ON FIRE!"
He woke up, looked around in a confused stupor, glanced behind him and went, "oh."
Yeah. And he's ALL mine.....
:)
Last night, I sat straight up in bed, sweating profusely, terrified of a single thought that sent me scurrying into my closet: What if I need another form of i.d.?
Yes - I'm afraid that I was - DMV-bound.
I had gathered up all my information - anything I thought that may be of use to the clerk who would look at me disapprovingly for having lost my license in the first place and then outright condemn me to hell for forgetting to bring my 8th grade transcripts or proof of human being status or something equally as impossible to attain. This time, though, I was going to be prepared. I marched into the DMV with a confidant smile upon my face - my purse was loaded with an arsenol of information. On my person was the following:
1. a birth certificate
2. a social sec. card (married)
3. a social sec. card (unmarried)
4. a marriage license
5. a cable bill (for proof of address)
6. a voter's registration card (dusty from years of non-use)
7. a valid passport
8. an insurance card
9. a credit card
10. a debit card
I was ready for 'em.
I strolled through the double doors and straight up to the information desk. The clerk was nice - it threw me - but no matter - I have heard that they will adapt their personality to suit you and then bite your head off for sport as soon as your back is turned. I knew their game. She handed me a form to fill out.
Nope - don't think so - I pulled out the exact same form , filled out in its entirety from the library of my bag. Looking mildly impressed she sent me to Window Three.
No one was there - so I stood. The guy sitting to my left was arguing with two clerks in a language I had never heard before. I wondered if it was Klingon - but the "Git-R-Done" hat (turned backwards for my reading enjoyment) made me doubt my assumptions.
Finally, my clerk showed up. He looked young and I realized that he must have been recruited straight out of the back of his high school's library for his current occupation. I handed him all my information - he handed it all back - except the cable bill. THAT was the one crucial piece of info that was required in order for the state of WV to see that I belonged here - that I was worthy of a duplicate license - I only had to pay too much for crappy cable! Finally, after checking all five of the dollars I handed him with a forgery pen, he issued me a receipt and I went to the camera station to have my picture taken. I was prepared for this, too. I was hovering over a seat, ready to sit, nest, and read some more of my too cute book "Undomestic Goddess" when my name was called.
Well, crapmuffins.
I hadn't even put my face on yet.
The lady smiled at me, and the eyebrowless man (what happened there, I wonder?) pointed me to the mirror they had mounted to the wall to the left of the desk. I slapped on some lipstick, poofed my hair and smiled for all the world to see (if they happened to pull me over).
I had achieved the impossible - I was in and out of the Department of Motor Vehicles in less than fifteen minutes.
I deserve a medal.
Or at least a do-over - that picture! Yeeesh! I look like a cross between a deer-in-headlights and the Yeti that ate it!
http://www.planearium2.de/flash/sp-studio.swf
I have yet to christen her - what should her name be?
email me with suggestions: h0llyk911@aol.com
:)
Department 56 is the devil incarnate.
It has claimed the soul of my dearly demented husband and has whispered sweet nothings in his ear so that he thinks the true road to happiness lies between the lit-up eerie houses of the tiny Halloween village perched upon our living room coffee table. But our collection didn't, and hasn't (thanks to the wonders of Ebay), stopped there. We have a direct artist reproduction of the Great Pumpkin sitting inconveniently on my drawing desk (I admit that we did have to wipe off a fine layer of dust before placing the Peanuts gang on their new home, though) and the Haunted Mansion, complete with trick-or-treating Disney characters frozen in porcelin mock fright on my gorgeous hand-painted entry table.
Everywhere are little houses, tiny skeletons, little hearses (or "hursts" as my "thank God he's got a cute ass" hubby would say) and miniature bats. We've invested in shrunken trees that light up, glitter encrusted ones with bright orange leaves, and two that even look like Candy Corn.
I am starting to develop a case of Lilliputian Anxiety.
Why so early with all the Halloweenie fun?
Well, number one, I have a very impatient significant other (we'll chronicle THAT one later) and he's like a kid in a toy story when he, well, gets new toys. He has and will arrange, and rearrange the village multiple times, asking me in mid-conversation, "So, um, do you think Mickey should go over with the Laghosti Theater or near the Undertaker's house? Should I just leave him where he is? Oh, and we need more adaptors..." I just nod and smile and be happy that at least, for now, he has moved on from his last obsession : He-man and Skeletor.
BY THE POWER OF GREY SKULL!
